


Hypoxia

by Jemisard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Spoilers: TBB, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:52:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock couldn't hide the marks of repeated strangulation forever. John is unhappy.</p><p>Written for this http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=350527#t350527 prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypoxia

John wasn't meant to be home until after work that evening.

However, when he came into work the day after being abducted, beaten unconscious and somewhat less than inadvertently shooting a man with an ancient Chinese crossbow, he was told under no uncertain terms that he wasn't to be there.

He was given the week off and told to go home. He didn't really want to go home, but he only managed to pass an hour at the library before deciding he probably did want to go home and rest up from the adrenaline.

His leg was behaving, so he let himself in and quietly made his way upstairs. The lack of banging and bubbling was promising and John let himself believe that just maybe Sherlock was trying to get some sleep.

The door opened quietly and he spied Sherlock lying on the couch, flat on his back and fingers steepled under his chin, head tipped back and eyes closed.

Then he saw the marks.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at John. "You're home early. Work are enforcing sick leave on you under the mistaken belief that you need to recover from the trauma of your kidnapping."

"How- no, don't. Doesn't matter. What happened to your neck?"

"I was throttled," Sherlock retorted.

John dumped his coat on a chair and sat on the edge of the couch, drawing an indignant sound from Sherlock, who tried to sit.

"Stay." John pointed a finger at him and pushed him back to the cushions firmly. "This is much more serious than just last night."

"Are you trying to say that wasn't serious?" He cleared his throat, trying to shift from under John's hands as he brought his fingertips up, not touching the marks but trying to shift Sherlock's head to let the light fall on the bruising.

"You know that's not what I'm saying. This is repeated trauma, fresh bruising over old." John slid his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck, forcing his throat into a slight arch as he shifted to avoid any actual skin to skin contact.

Maybe it should have felt weird, but the trained medical part of John's mind was taking over to deal with this. "Repeated layering of bruises over... twenty four hours, maybe forty eight. First layer shows sharp marking, ligature of some kind." He touched his fingertip lightly across the very top of Sherlock's throat, cutting under his chin and jaw. "No sign of rope burning, suggests twisted cloth maybe, like a scarf or tea towel."

Sherlock's breathing was slightly sharp and short, his eyes riveted on John's face when John glanced up and then back down.

"You were brought down by your attacker, they were either a giant or, more likely, managed to bring you to your knees quickly from the upward angle of the bruising. The large contusion over the carotid arteries suggests a knot or twist that was used to induce quick hypotension and unconsciousness and the blood pressure was dropped below medically safe levels." He looked up to Sherlock's eyes. "How am I doing so far?"

"It- It was a silk slip," Sherlock barely whispered.

"You could just say 'Very well John, I appreciate your excellent medical knowledge.' This should have been treated at the time, Sherlock. The bruising could have been alleviated significantly and the pain wouldn't have been half as bad. I suppose this is why you were having so many troubles the other night."

Sherlock didn't reply, but he did swallow, making his adam's apple bob and drawing John's gaze back down to the bruising. "Secondary bruising... Maybe a day or two later. Manual strangulation, I think." He shifted his right hand, thumb touching the dark spot and then stretching to curl his hand over his slender throat. "Right handed. Pressure focused on the larynx, possibly attempting to break to hyoid bone." His thumb shifted slightly to stroke the spot in question. "Attacker slightly shorter than you, taller than me. Impression of maybe... not rings... wearing something on the hand, hard finger tips. The circus, the fight behind the curtains."

"E-Excellently deduced," Sherlock whispered and John could feel the next swallow under his hand, the way Sherlock's pulse was fluttering under his fingertips, skin heated with bruising and flushing pink with the moment.

"I _am_ a doctor, despite the fact you treat me like a barely functioning imbecile some of the time." He kept his touch light, stroking the outlines of the bruises, the different layers of damage. "This one could have been very serious, compounding the previous injury. The internal swelling must be significant."

Sherlock stayed silently, breathing slightly shaky and swallowing occasionally with the smallest hint of pain on his face when he did.

"Then of course, there's the generalised bruising from the fight in the tunnels. Minimal actual damage due to how thick the cloth was, constricting without have a garrote affect on the throat. Induced hypoxia, suffocation, starving the brain of enough oxygen." He shifted his hands again, both hands cupping and cradling Sherlock's slender neck, his thumbs resting lightly either side of his larynx. "I could throttle you for being so cavalier with your health, but it would sort of defeat the point." He stroked softly and Sherlock shivered under him. "You need medical attention. You're lucky you live with a doctor. Is the pain bad?"

Sherlock started to nod and then changed his mind and shook his head instead. He swallowed again, hard; John felt the entire movement through his hands.

"Liar," he whispered to the younger man, leaning down a bit closer, fingers still light on bruised skin.

Sherlock almost quirked a slight smile at the accusation.


End file.
